


drinking games

by 0neType



Series: light the path home [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dreamtale, Alternate Universe - Underverse, Animosity, Arguing, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Never Have I Ever, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Post-Underverse, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType
Summary: Cross tries to rescue Dream and gets more than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little break from the smut for some Plot.
> 
> ... though I mean, just for this one chapter I guess. 😂
> 
> (Note that this chapter takes place _before_ the final events of 'light the path home'. The second chapter will take place _after_ the first half of 'a moment in the dark'.)

Cross gets to the castle at what passes for midnight in a world that’s perpetually dark. He’s both relieved and also more than a little paranoid at the fact that Nightmare hasn’t changed the lock on the universe, altering the code to keeping Cross from returning. Their parting had been a difficult one to say the least, and Nightmare isn’t exactly prone to forgiveness. Still, Cross isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Ink’s words ring in his head and Cross’ soul pounds restlessly, pushing him to do what he came here to do as fast as possible. 

It’s obvious as soon as he shoves open the gates that Nightmare knows he’s arrived, a chill blanketing him. Cross isn’t surprised—there’s nothing that happens in this place that the molasses black monster isn’t intimately aware of. It’s like he’s being watched, every shadow just another place for Nightmare to materialise from. Walking in through the eerily undisturbed main entrance, Cross can feel the usual darkness and negativity trying to seep into him. It’s been a while since he’s had to actively fight the feeling off, focusing on the positivity in his soul while the atmosphere around him tries to curl around his ribs. He grits his teeth. 

What it must be like for Dream? If what Ink said is to be trusted, he’s been trapped here for upwards of a month already. The bright, hopeful Guardian must be too weak to even _think _of escape. 

Cross squares his shoulders, soldiering on through the empty halls. No one interrupts his march to Nightmare’s study. It could be that they’ll gang up on him all at once. He’s not looking for a fight, but he’ll manage if he has to. Killer, Horror, Dust—he’ll take them all on. Dream had helped him when he was at his worst. Cross wouldn’t let him down now when he was suffering. 

Even Nightmare himself couldn’t stop him. 

It’s as he closes in on the study that Cross suddenly stops, head whipping to the side. Much like Nightmare, Dream has his own aura as well. Cross hadn’t expected to feel it, not with Nightmare’s energy so condensed and thick over the castle, but he does. There’s a twist in his soul as he recognises the soft pulsing of positive energy from somewhere not too far. It’s faint—much fainter than Cross remembers it being. 

“Cross.” 

He startles, distracted from his thoughts by the appearance of the one monster he should never drop his guard around. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Nightmare asks, sardonic. 

He hasn’t changed, that’s what strikes Cross immediately. The multiverse broke around him, unions shattered, monsters and humans alike wrecked from loss, and yet, nothing about Nightmare suggests that any of that ever affected him. He wears the same disaffected smile on his face as always, eyelight flickering steadily as he surveys him. Nightmare remains a being untouched by the passing of time around him, sovereign over all that he chooses. 

Cross turns away from the call of Dream’s aura. He can’t leave now. He needs to clear the path first, and that means handling Nightmare. 

“A guy can’t drop by and say hello to a couple old friends?” 

Nightmare snorts, “We were never friends.” 

Cross grins at him, spreading his stance and grounding himself. “Wasn’t talking about you.” 

The smile on the other monster’s mouth stretches wider, strange and unnatural on his constantly dripping face. There’s a tense pause. Cross waits for Nightmare to either attack him or to let it slide. His mood is mercurial even of the best of days, but Cross is ready for whatever Nightmare wants to throw at him. After all that time by his side, he’s picked up a thing or two. 

A tentacle snaps in the air and Cross holds back a flinch. Nightmare watches his face carefully as he uses the appendage to open the door to the study. Cross keeps his expression blank and his emotions in check. He doesn’t give Nightmare anything to latch onto. 

“Why don’t you join me inside for now? Your ‘friends’ are all asleep.” 

“Asleep before the witching hour even starts?” Cross drawls. Going in first gives Nightmare his back, but there’s no way to avoid it when the self-proclaimed King stands aside to let him pass. Cross smooths away his nerves, stepping in through the open doors with as much nonchalance as he can muster. “You guys have been slacking without me.” 

“Yes, things have really fallen apart here without your endless angst and constant petulant whining for attention.” 

“Harsh,” Cross responds, but he’s only half paying attention to the conversation. His eyelights dart around the room, checking for ambushes and snares. Knowing Nightmare, anything truly dangerous won’t be easily visible, but it wouldn’t do to get complacent. 

The castle’s library is the same as always, shelves lining every wall, stacked from floor to ceiling with books. Nightmare’s large, ebony wood desk is still centered in front of the windows against the back wall, casting the surrounding area in a dusky glow. It’s what makes the room his and his alone, a study for his personal use. Everything inside is unchanged from the few times Cross has been here before, seeking Nightmare out in his sanctum. 

There’s a chill at his side as Nightmare pulls in close. 

“Searching for traps, Cross?” The monster whispers into the side of his skull. “You don’t trust me... I’m hurt.” 

Cross takes a step further into the room, more to get away from Nightmare’s sudden proximity than anything else. “Don’t think I trusted you even when I was a part of all this.” 

“How prudent of you.” 

His old leader steps smoothly around him, drifting towards his desk with his usual disconcerting grace. Despite his shaggy appearance—all hoodies and shorts—Nightmare always gave off a regal impression. It had captivated Cross when they’d first met, apprehension and awe in equal measures, but it lingers even now. 

There’s something about Nightmare that’s almost princely. It’s timeless and old and Cross can’t quite shake the urge to stand a little straighter when the monster looks back at him. 

“Well then.” Nightmare smiles at him, sharp and malicious. “Let’s get started.” 

Cross frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m not one for wasting time—you’re here for my brother.” 

His soul jumps up in his chest all at once. Cross clamps his mouth firmly shut. If Nightmare already figured it out, there’s no point denying it. He has to be careful with what he says. 

“How did you know?” 

Nightmare’s eyes flashes, the inky substance covering his body glistening in the orange-gold light of the room. “You’ve always been emotional, Cross. It’s what drew me to you in the first place.” 

A tentacle pulls at the chair behind the desk and drags it to the front while another opens a drawer and searches inside, all while Nightmare keeps a steady eye on him, grin never faltering. Cross meets his gaze, steady. He’s not going to be the first to back down, not ever. 

“Even now, your feelings are easy to read. A delicious mixture of hostility. Restlessness and agitation. Persistence, frustration, worry...” Nightmare stops for a moment. He tilts his head, considering. “... fear.” 

Cross doesn’t move. He doesn’t twitch. 

“Pairing all of that with the fact that you never once came back here... not until my brother came around... well, it’s simple to connect the dots, really.” 

It doesn’t faze Nightmare when Cross remains silent. In fact, the malefactor continues setting up his desk, pulling a large bottle of deep amber liquid up onto it with his tentacle. The inky appendage places the bottle down and then maneuvers itself under him and Nightmare neatly takes a seat on it, folding his legs one over the other and leaving the ornate, wooden chair open for use. He brandishes an arm towards it. “Take a seat, Cross. Have a drink with me.” 

“Nah, I’m good thanks.” 

“Oh,” Nightmare laughs, “It wasn’t a request.” 

It’s like being brought right back to the start of all this, living under Nightmare’s rule. The King’s word is binding, and Cross can feel his automatic urge to obey in order to avoid the repercussions. He holds himself back. Nightmare has no control over him, no one does—not anymore. Cross has fought and sweat and _bled _for his life back, and he’s not about to give that up to anyone. 

But then... when he thinks of Dream—kind, compassionate and selfless—stuck here indefinitely, the next move is obvious. 

Cross sits down. 

Nightmare’s smile is blinding, bone-white in the pitch of his form. There’s less than a foot of space in between them, which is far too close, knees almost touching. But he can’t push the chair away now that he’s sitting, not unless he wants to lose whatever covert contention Nightmare’s dragged him into. Nightmare knows it too, a smug satisfaction curling at the ends of his mouth. 

Another tendril deftly opens a drawer and pulls out two tulip-shaped glasses. Cross watches as one is placed in front of each of them, Nightmare’s appendage then easily lifting the bottle and pouring whiskey in. “Let’s play a game, just to break the ice after so long.” 

Nightmare reaches out with his hand to pick up the glass, swirling it a few times before he takes a slow, savouring sip. All the while, he maintains eye contact. It gives Cross the impression that this is a show for him. A sort of assurance that the contents of the liquid in his glass are safe to consume. 

“Are you familiar with ‘Never Have I Ever?’” 

Cross stares at him. “What does this have to do with me coming here for Dream?” 

“I asked you a question, Cross.” 

“I thought you said you weren’t one for ‘wasting time’,” he counters. 

Nightmare’s smile doesn’t waver. For a brief moment, silence pierces through their conversation, whole and consuming. When Nightmare speaks again, there’s warning low in his tone. “I’m not.” 

Those two words are enough to chill the room. The lights flicker, like somehow Nightmare controls them on mood alone. Cross shivers. Nightmare is temperamental; volatile and unpredictable even when things are going well. It’s in his best interest to go along with it what he wants till a better opportunity presents itself. 

“I’ve... played it before,” Cross answers carefully, eyeing the glass in front of him, “Usually with shots though.” 

“This isn’t the type of drink you take shots of,” Nightmare tuts, “It’s meant to be appreciated. I made it specifically to be enjoyed.” 

“You... made it?” 

“I did,” Nightmare confirms. Cross looks the drink over warily. The whiskey sits there, unassuming. It seems harmless enough, and Nightmare drank it without issue, but then again... there’s a lot of things Nightmare can stomach that would otherwise make a person blanch. 

“Would you like to sample it before we begin? Or shall we get started?” 

Cross picks up his glass. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

“Excellent. I’ll start us off.” Nightmare continues to swirl his glass, the repetitive motion incredibly irritating the longer he keeps at it. Cross tries to tamp down on the feeling but, judging by the way Nightmare’s smile broadens, he notices it anyways. “Never have I ever neglected to complete my end of a deal, leaving my team behind and betraying them for my own selfish purposes.” 

“Wow. You been keeping that in long?” 

“It’s aged well.” 

“Not like you’re one to talk about selfishness anyways,” Cross mumbles, peering into his glass and giving it a sniff. Immediately he’s assaulted by the aroma of apples, overpowering every other scent. He reflexively pulls back. Nightmare chuckles as he does so. 

“Problem?” 

Cross doesn’t answer, instead hesitantly bringing the whiskey back up to his mouth. He remembers what Dream told him about his past. About how he and his brother ended up this way. His soul pounds as he takes a cautious sip. 

It’s smooth. It goes down easier than he’s used to with whiskey. It’s also sweet, lingering on his tongue before hitting him with something more like sour apple at the end. Still holding the glass close and breathing it in, he can finally catch the scent of spice behind the apple, but it’s nowhere near as pronounced. He gets the impression that the more he drinks it, the more layers he’ll uncover. 

“How is it?” 

“Why apples?” 

“The fact that you’re asking with not a drop of genuine curiosity coming off you means you must already have an inkling as to why,” Nightmare says, “Perhaps my brother has told you some of our secrets.” 

“We’re friends,” Cross says, like that explains it all. Even as he says it, it feels insufficient. He tries not to let it show on his face or in his feelings. 

Nightmare fixes him with a level look, quiet and contemplative. Cross doesn’t know how to read it. He takes longer than strictly necessary to speak again and, when he does, he sidesteps Cross’ comment entirely. “It’s your turn.” 

“Uh,” Cross scrambles for something to say, unprepared, “Never have I ever... built myself a castle and called myself King.” 

“... is that really the best you can do?” 

“I’m getting warmed up.” 

Nightmare snorts but obliges with a drink. He closes his eye as he puts it to his mouth, an expression of indulgence on his face. When he puts his glass down again, his single clear socket remains half-lidded. 

“Never have I ever gotten fucked on a desk in a library.” 

Cross chokes, cheekbones instantly aglow. 

“Warmed up yet?” 

He can’t verbalise an answer, embarrassment keeping his words back. It’s all he can do to take another drink, knocking it back this time like it really is a shot. A little of it spills down his chin in his haste. He barely tastes it, and he’s not entirely sure if the warm flush he’s feeling is from the words or the whiskey. 

Cross wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Fuck you.” 

“We’re past that point, I think.” 

Glowering, Cross says, “Never have I ever kept my brother prisoner.” 

“Dream is here because he wants to be.” 

“While that’s still debateable,” Cross says, “I was talking about keeping him in stone for a hundred years. I sincerely doubt_ that _was done with his consent.” 

For the first time since he came in here, Nightmare looks truly taken off-guard. It’s only visible on his face for a fraction of a second before he smooths the look away, but that just means it’s real. Cross feels a swell of triumph. Nightmare’s mouth turns down. “... it seems Dream has told you far more than I thought he would.” 

“He trusts me.” 

Nightmare drinks, calculating. As he does, Cross swirls his own glass, restless. Now that it’s been a while, he’s grown acclimated to the aroma of apple. Holding it up, he can catch hints of cinnamon and oak. A distant part of him wonders at Nightmare putting so much work and care into something like this. 

“Never have I ever taken on a new name.” 

As far as everything else he’s thrown at Cross goes, this one is relatively tame. Seems like Cross’ last hit really got to him. Good. 

He’s definitely got issues with being referred to as Sans after... _everything_... but those aren’t issues Nightmare is privy to, so it’s not a statement that means much coming from him. When Nightmare says it, it’s a simple fact. A reminder that Nightmare has always been Nightmare, right from the very beginning, no matter the familiar base of his skeletal form. 

Cross drinks, tasting the sweetness of the whiskey anew. He was right about the layers. Past the initial bust of apple, there’s the cinnamon and oak again, along with a little clove. Despite himself, he’s impressed. Nightmare put some real thought into this. 

Chest still puffed with the high of his last attack, Cross wracks his memories for prior conversations with Dream. If bringing up Nightmare’s past is a weak spot, he intends to keep hammering on it. “Never have I ever destroyed the Tree of Feelings.” 

Sure enough, Nightmare flinches. It may just be the whiskey talking, but Cross feels giddy and excited at having gotten the upper hand on Nightmare twice in a row. Especially with it being enough to get him to visibly react. Cross taps his phalanges rhythmically against his glass, bones buzzing. A grin slips onto his face and a giggle escapes him. Nightmare glances up at him at the sound, browbone raising, and Cross slaps a hand over his mouth with an audible clack. 

_ Fuck_. 

Come to think of it, it really _may _be the whiskey. He wouldn’t exactly call himself a lightweight but... Cross has never really had much experience with drinking. 

There just wasn’t time for it in between the countless Overwrites and relearning who he is from one timeline to the next. 

Whatever the case, his little display has a smile pulling at Nightmare’s mouth, unkind. When the other monster drinks his loss, he doesn’t seem bothered like he had been moments ago. Cross shivers, unsettled. 

There’s nothing worse than Nightmare with a plan. 

“Hmm...” Nightmare lowers his glass, staring at Cross over the top of it. “Let’s see... how about... never have I ever killed my brother?” 

It’s like having his soul ripped right out of his chest. 

Cross isn’t aware of the noise he makes save the fact that he must’ve made one since Nightmare’s grin twists upwards. He wrenches his gaze away, staring into his lap as his sockets itch and burn with the beginning of wetness. His chest aches, his soul sick with guilt as it pounds anxiously beneath his ribs. Cross is nauseous all at once, the sweet, apple taste of whiskey putrid on the back of his tongue. His head is ringing, Papyrus’s face clear in his vision. His brother. His baby brother. 

“Oh, lighten up.” Nightmare’s voice breaks into the haze of his thoughts. “He came back, didn’t he? You’re better off than Killer or even poor, unhinged, Dust.” 

He grinds his teeth. He very resolutely doesn’t think of those final, awful moments. He ignores the memory of afterwards, when he’d discovered he’d reached the point of no return, that his decisions were immutable. He closes himself off from the way Papyrus had looked when Gaster brought him back, pain and forgiveness in equal measures. 

Nightmare nudges a glass in his face, tentacles wrapped around it, making Cross jolt away from his touch. As the monster chuckles, Cross notices his own hands are empty. When he frowns, Nightmare pushes the glass into the side of his skull again. 

“You dropped this,” he says, smooth, “I caught it for you. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” 

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Nightmare winds the glass into Cross’ grip, the slimy, cold touch of his tentacle lingering even after it retreats. Cross resists the urge to shake his hand off to escape the feeling. He stares down into the amber liquid in his glass with distaste. 

“Go on. Drink.” 

The bubbly feeling from earlier is gone. Cross is cold all over, soul pained and weak. No doubt his emotional state is empowering Nightmare with every passing second. He hates it, and the fact that Nightmare can probably read it on him just infuriates him further. 

Cross slams the glass down onto the desk, hard enough that the remaining liquid spills over the top of it and onto the sleek, wooden surface below. 

“No.” 

“No?” Nightmare repeats, amused. 

“_No_,” Cross bites, “This shit isn’t what I came here for. I wanna know where Dream is. Where are you keeping him and how come no one has seen him for weeks? What game are you playing by holding him here? Come out with it already—no more of this pointless crap, Nightmare.” 

“You’re mistaken, Cross.” Nightmare places his own glass back down on the table, delicate. “There is _very much_ a point to all this.” 

Any scathing retort Cross can think up immediately dies in his throat as Nightmare stands, teal eye electric-bright and lumbering aura crashing down around them. It’s whole and encompassing, like drowning at the bottom of a lake. It’s like the blackness of Nightmare’s form seeps into the very air around them, damp and uncomfortable. A damning fear crawls into Cross’ soul, amplifying his doubts and making him shiver. He tries to remind himself that these aren’t his feelings, that it’s just Nightmare toying with him, but it’s difficult to ground himself when the other monster is so well-versed in manipulating the hearts of others. 

“The _point _is,” Nightmare drawls, “To remind you of your place.” 

Cross can’t dredge up a word in response. It’s humiliating. This is not at all how he planned for things to go. His throat is closed tight, Nightmare’s eye manic and his presence leaden and oppressive. His tentacles writhe behind him, going from relaxed to tense, ready to snap at command. It takes all Cross has just to glare at Nightmare, defiant. 

“You seem to be under an erroneous impression. Dream doesn’t _belong _to you, Cross. You have no right to come waltzing in here, demanding to have him,” Nightmare says it like he’s bored, but the tightness of his smile betrays him. The monster takes a step closer to him and Cross grips tight onto the arm of his seat to brace himself. “If my brother belongs to anyone, it’s to _me_. From the moment we were created.” 

“You’re _sick__, _” Cross spits as he shoots up out of the chair, his inner revulsion loosening his tongue and his limbs at last, “You don’t own him, Nightmare. You think you can just imprison him like no one will notice—” 

“As I’ve said repeatedly, Dream is here because he wants to be—” 

“_Bullshit_.” 

Anger surges in Nightmare’s aura, a tentacle whipping out and twisting around Cross’ neck. It strangles him, cutting off his words. Cross’ hand go up to grab at it automatically, trying to wrest it away. He doesn’t need to breathe, but the area is sensitive regardless. One false step and Nightmare could pop his skull right off, dusting him slowly. It’s not the way Cross intends to go. 

“Don’t speak as if you know a thing about us,” Nightmare hisses, “Five hundred years makes for a relationship that you can’t even_ begin _to comprehend.” 

Cross laughs, wheezing and breathless. Getting words out is a struggle. “You slowly poisoning your brother is not a relationship.” 

“Poisoning?” To give him credit for his acting, Nightmare actually manages to look legitimately confused behind his explosive irritation. 

“Dream is weak—way weaker than he was before he came here,” Cross rasps, “Sure he may have come here on his own initially, maybe with some misguided thought to make up with you, but after all this time in your castle, after so long mired in your aura, there’s no doubt that it’s taken a toll on him.” 

There’s a lengthy pause, as if Nightmare is slowly digesting his words. The tentacle around his neck slackens enough that Cross is able to take in a shaky breath, his phalanges scrambling along its slick surface. “Your negativity is slowly leeching him of everything that makes him, _him_. Since you’re so adamant he’s here because he wants to be, maybe it’s even whittled Dream down enough that he just doesn’t see why he _needs _to leave. He’s been stuck here so long, he can’t see what it’s done to him; what _you’re _doing to him.” 

“You’re a fool making baseless assumptions,” Nightmare scoffs, harsh, “My brother is fine.” 

“You sound pretty sure for a guy making baseless assumptions of his own.” 

Nightmare smirks, “Not baseless. If Dream were as low and as out-of-sorts as you claim he is, he wouldn’t have been able to muster the will to leave the castle like he did just today. In fact, he said himself that he’ll be spending the night at a friend’s.” 

Cross stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not gonna fall for an obvious lie like that. Dream is still in the castle, I could feel his presence when I got here.” 

The other monster’s mouth twists, his expression scrunching in annoyance. The tentacle around his neck flexes like a warning and Cross slips a finger under it to give himself some breathing room. There’s not one inch of Nightmare that looks like he believes what Cross is saying. It strikes Cross with the frightening notion that Nightmare might be telling what he thinks is the truth. That fear is further compounded when Nightmare’s eye on him becomes unfocused, like he’s concentrating on something else, before suddenly shrinking in his socket with abrupt surprise. 

Cross’ throat feels dry. “It was faint. I wouldn’t have felt him at all if I hadn’t been actively searching for him. So, if you thought he wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have even known it...” 

The expression on Nightmare’s face is unlike anything Cross has seen on him before. He’s stricken, shocked and... it can’t be worry, it doesn’t make sense—there’s no part of Nightmare that feels any shred of mercy or compassion. Cross has learned that much at least from his time in the castle. He can’t reconcile the idea of a Nightmare that feels anything but possession over those he rules. 

But the way Nightmare’s eyelight shakes in his socket speaks volumes, as does the way the tendril around his neck retreats, slinking away like its owner no longer has the strength to keep it wrapped around him. 

“Did you... did you honestly not notice...?” 

“Get out.” Nightmare’s voice shakes. 

Cross’ mind is whirling. What the fuck is going on? 

“Nightmare—” 

“_Get out._” 

A burst of negativity pulses out from Nightmare, hitting Cross square in the chest. It knocks him to his knees, soul aching like a bruise. Tears spill from his sockets, unbidden, bile rising in the back of his throat. His bones shake and tremble from the force of the emotion. He tries to push himself up, tries to get to his feet, but the effort it too much for his downtrodden body. Anxiousness overtakes him, soul stuttering uselessly at his core as he flicks his gaze back up. He has an automatic apology on his tongue, an excuse, a reason why he can’t leave, something, anything, to spare him Nightmare’s ire and it’s like he’s right back to when he worked for him, the events following be damned, only...

Only, when he looks up, the room is empty. 

Nightmare is nowhere to be seen. 

Slowly, like pus being drained from a boil, the tension leaves him. Bit by bit, Cross can breathe again, and he drags himself up off the floor with a hand still pressed to his soul like it’ll soothe the way it hurts. He steadies himself on the table, vision fuzzy with exhaustion. 

He hasn’t been on the receiving end of an emotional outburst from Nightmare in a long time. 

Helplessly, he reaches out for Dream, but it’s no use. He’s far too drained to feel anything but the negativity Nightmare has bathed the room in. Intentional or not, Nightmare has effectively killed the fight in him, at least for now. If Cross wants to help Dream escape, he’ll have to rest and recover, all while hoping Nightmare doesn’t make his own move in the meantime.

As he sluggishly makes his way out of the study and peers down the hall to remember where his old room is, Cross steels himself and plans for the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drinking was basically an excuse for me to pay homage to the "Never Have I Ever" game Cross and Haventale!Gaster played in the "unofficial" Cream comics :") I just really loved how quickly Cross got drunk, how cute his reactions were, and how bad he was at the game in general :"D So, naturally, I had to use it heheheh 😌
> 
> Next chapter, Cross overhears something he really, really, _really_ wishes he hadn't. >;3c


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody asked for Cross headcanons and backstory but here it is anyways LMAO
> 
> _(Warning for dubcon this chapter. See end notes for details.)_

“Hey, Paps. What’s up?”

Even as he speaks, he’s more focused on Dream leaving the room, his posture small and unobtrusive. Cross’ soul is heavy, weighted with all the words he can’t get out. Dream doesn’t even realise the danger he’s in, staying here with Nightmare like this. Or if he realises, his optimism won’t let him take it seriously.

Dream still thinks there’s something to redeem in his brother, something there to bring back to the light.

“Sans,” Papyrus scolds over the phone, “I have been trying to reach you for hours now!”

He tries to reorient himself to the conversation at hand, pausing a beat to steady himself as the door clicks shut. “Sorry, bro. I was traveling through the multiverse and lost track of time.”

“Oh, was it with that one friend of yours? The one who father was… acquainted with?”

Cross flinches. “No.”

“Hmm…”

Their dialogue lulls into an awkward silence, quiet like it never used to be till everything changed. Papyrus is clearly working his way up to asking something, otherwise he never lets the low mood linger. Both of them have always been big fans of pretending nothing is wrong. Well, Cross more-so than his brother, but it’s obvious he’s been rubbing off on him. Especially since Papyrus has been hesitant around him lately. Cross can’t exactly blame him with all the bullshit that’s happened, but it’s wearing him down having to push and prod for more from Papyrus when they used to be perfectly in sync.

“What did you call me for, Pap?”

“Yes! Well, I…” Papyrus trails off again. “I was just wondering when you were planning on coming home…?”

Guilt makes him cold, phalanges reflexively gripping the phone tighter. “Uh…”

“It’s just—! I spoke to the King and Queen the other day, and they were in agreement with me that we should all have a nice, informal get together! It’s been quite a while since we were all in one place, and it would be exciting to sit down, catch up and see what everyone’s been doing. Undyne is coming, and she’ll definitely bring Alphys along, so you’ll have her to speak to, plus I know you get along well with the Queen and—”

Papyrus keeps talking but Cross can’t hear his voice past the growing nausea that thunders in his skull and settles in his soul, overtaking him. Sitting face to face with all these people, with these monsters he’d once called his family and friends… the very same people who had turned around and betrayed him, _ attacked _ him—he doesn’t know if he can do it. To sit with them and laugh like nothing ever happened when he can remember the piercing pain of every one of their hits as they tried to _ kill _ him… he can’t. Not yet.

And maybe not ever.

“Papyrus, I—”

“Please!” Papyrus cuts him off, as if he can anticipate Cross’ answer simply by the way he says his name. “_Please_, Sans. You’re never around anymore. You come and go so quickly, it’s like you don’t even live here anymore. It’s been so long since you’ve actually spent some time with everyone… spent time with _ me_.”

His soul continues to drum against his chest, squeezing painfully tight at the desperation in his brother’s voice.

“Please come home, Sans. Please come see us all again. You’re always gone a-and… I never know how long it’s going to take you to come back, and everyone acts like it’s fine, but it’s _ not_, Sans. I… I miss you, brother. I miss you so much, Sans, so please…”

It’s overwhelming.

“Cross,” he croaks.

He can hear the dense confusion in the momentary pause Papyrus takes before responding. “W-what…?”

“It’s Cross now,” he clarifies, whispery soft. It’s not the point, it’s not even close to an answer, but it’s all he can manage to get out when his chest feels tight and his voice comes strained. “We talked about this, Paps. Don’t call me Sans anymore.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.

“… you used to hate it when Frisk called you that.”

“Yeah, well…” It’s all he can do to keep himself steady. To not lose himself in the memory of a blank expanse of white; nothingness as far as the eye could see. He can still hear too clearly the sounds of laughter and accusation in his head, no escape from his regrets and the sins he committed under the name he bore. “Things change.”

It’s funny how the quiet between them only serves to remind Cross that much further of how long he spent alone.

“… I guess they do.”

There’s a second where Cross desperately wants to take it all back. The disappointment in Papyrus’s voice isn’t worth this. It doesn’t matter how he feels about the past—hadn’t he done worse to everyone else? He hadn’t been out for revenge, but he’d paid them back for the damage twice over. What is he holding grudges for when the rest of them have moved on? 

Papyrus deserves better and, to be honest, Cross is ready to have his family back.

But his thoughts don’t make their way into words. Not the ones he wants anyways. “I’ll drop by. I can’t exactly say when since I’m in the middle of something important right now but… soon.”

“Okay,” Papyrus says, knowing better than to ask his brother to promise, “I suppose I will look forward to seeing you then, Cross.”

His soul squeezes painfully tight. “Yeah… thanks, Paps.”

“Of course. I love you, brother.”

And that, at least, is easy to respond to. “Love you too, bro.”

They hang up.

Cross is tired beyond measure. Between the mess with Nightmare last night, the one-sided conversation with Dream just minutes ago, and then this phone call, he’s ready for the day to end and it’s not even noon yet. Everything is too loud, too much, and it’s because of the roaring in his skull that it takes a fraction for Cross to realise that the thumping he hears is not actually internal.

There’s something happening outside.

With a frown, Cross pockets his phone and cautiously makes his way over to his bedroom door. His body is tensed, ready for the slightest sign of something amiss. He strains his hearing, listening carefully as the thumping continues, though it’s softer than earlier. Once he’s a few feet from the door, he can also hear low mumbling.

It sounds like Nightmare.

As soon as he makes the connection, he hears a loud, plaintive cry in another distinctly familiar voice. His soul leaps up anxiously. It’s Dream, there’s no doubt about it, and immediately Cross is battle ready. If Nightmare is hurting him, Cross is not going to just stand by and let it happen.

As if the monster outside had been alerted to his awareness—and with his affinity for negative emotions, maybe he has—Cross can hear Nightmare’s voice get a little louder, a little clearer. He hears something that sounds like his name, followed by a threat paired with it, and that’s all he needs to grab onto the doorknob and twist it open under his touch.

Cross steps out into the hallway with his magic crackling at his fingertips.

“He doesn’t know you,” Nightmare says where he’s crowding Dream into the wall. It takes Cross a second to process what he’s seeing. It takes a second more for it to send a rush of colour to his face. “Not like _ I _ do.”

Nightmare has a hand around Dream’s throat and a tentacle inside of him. Dream’s eyes are closed, clenched together tight, his face bright with the hue of his magic. His mouth falls open in another gasp as Nightmare moves and Cross’ eyelights are drawn to where they’re connected. He can see the slick dripping down onto the stone floor as Nightmare’s cock enters his brother alongside his tentacle.

The magic Cross had gathered to fight with makes a quick redirection. The tenseness from earlier reasserts itself in a new, mortifying manner. As Cross watches Dream push back eagerly into Nightmare’s thrusts, tears streaming down his face, heat works into his body, gathering warm and insistent in his pelvis.

Dream mumbles something, desperate pleas mixed with variations of Nightmare’s name, body twisting and shaking against the wall. Nightmare shushes him, like it’ll help at all when they’re already so loud that it’s a wonder the rest of the castle isn’t here to figure out the source of the disturbance. Cross’ cheekbones burn as the tentacle curled around Dream’s dick pumps it further and Dream moans like it’s all he needs.

He forces himself to look away, but wrenching his gaze upwards only makes his soul stutter to a momentary stop in his chest.

Nightmare is watching him.

The monster’s single eyelight is bright and sharp, staring Cross down with an awful vehemence that feels like a physical strike. A slow smile curves onto his face, mean and victorious. Something about it makes Cross want to take half a step back to distance himself, but he holds his position, refusing to back down.

Like he’s responding to it, Nightmare increases his pace, rocking up into Dream faster. Dream is trembling, shaking like he’s going to fall apart, completely at Nightmare’s mercy. The other monster has none to offer, roughly yanking Dream onto him further, groaning as Dream cries out, unabashed.

“Who do you belong to?” Nightmare rasps at his brother, and Cross knows that the question is meant for him to hear.

Dream whines, body sagging against the wall as his knees quake, bending inward. “Ahn—_hh_, Nightmare, I—”

It doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer. Cross doesn’t think he _ can_, not with how much of himself he’s given up right now. To him, it looks like Dream is barely conscious, moving on instinct alone, hips rolling even with his eyes still shut and form still slouched into the wall. Without it for support, he’d probably have stumbled and fallen already.

But Nightmare doesn’t care.

“_Who do you belong to, Dream?_”

“_You_,” Dream sobs and Cross’ soul twists in sympathy, no stranger to the demanding way Nightmare pushes for compliance. “You, you, _ you_, Night, you, please—”

Nightmare fucks faster into Dream and Cross twitches as the initial shock of the moment finally passes, unfreezing his thoughts. It occurs to him that he can leave. He _ should _ leave. There’s no reason to stay, watching Nightmare make a claim on his brother like this. But as Dream makes another pleading noise and then stiffens, body going taut as the tentacle around his cock works him through his obvious orgasm, he can’t make himself move.

He watches as Dream slumps in Nightmare’s arms, eyelights riveted on his slackened face before Nightmare’s tar-like tentacles wrap around him and hide him from view.

“Good boy,” he whispers and Cross shivers, reflexive. There’s an odd, out-of-place moment where Nightmare stares down at Dream, wordless. Then, he turns towards Cross, satisfaction simmering in the bright teal of his eye. “You are dismissed.”

His traitorous body finally sparks to life, as if it was waiting for Nightmare’s command alone.

Cross staggers back a step, wary, eyelights fixed on his old leader. The smirk that quirks on the centuries old monster’s face is infuriating, like he knows exactly how much power he stills hold over Cross with words alone. He grinds his teeth. Logically, he knows it’ll take more than a couple months, or maybe even years to work past his instinctual reaction to Nightmare, but it’s frustrating regardless.

He just wants to be done with the past. No more of this.

He really should say something, _ do _ something, but it takes effort that he can’t seem to muster and by the time his body starts to cooperate, Nightmare has already turned away from him. There’s a fractional pause before a dark portal yawns open and Nightmare steps into it, Dream in his grasp. It closes up around them as they pass through, leaving Cross alone in the hall by himself.

The adrenaline slowly drains from his system, his bones aching from the tense, strained way he’d held them for the duration. Cross makes his way back into his room, staggered, shutting the door behind him. A second later, he slumps against it and slides down, putting his burning face in his hands.

“_Fuck_,” he groans, humiliated in more ways than one.

He hadn’t known about the relationship between the brothers. It sits queasy and wrong in his false gut that they _have_ _one_ in the first place. Maybe after half a millennium of being alive, this sort of thing means nothing to them, but Cross can’t reconcile it with his worldview. No matter the number of multiverses and their infinite potential, he never would have imagined something so gnarled and twisted away from the definition of family occurring like nothing out of the ordinary. Especially not with monsters he knew. Even worse than that is the fact that…

…it hadn’t exactly turned him off, had it?

“God _ damn _ it.”

Magic swirls heavy and hot in his pelvis, bright enough now that he can see the low purple glow start to peek through his shorts. He glares down at it like it’s a problem he can solve by willing it away. He probably _ could _ if he just waited and thought about something else to distract himself.

But he can’t.

Not when he knows, intimately, what it’s like to have Nightmare pressed against him, working him over bit by bit. He knows the awful curl of Nightmare’s tentacles around his body, pulling reactions from him past the point of exhaustion. He knows how fucking _ good _ it feels, to let go like that, to have someone take control and to not worry about the consequences, at least right in that moment.

And then to discover _ now_, as he saw the brothers locked together, that his affection for Dream had grown far past the regular bounds of friendship… no, there’s no way he can distract himself into thinking of anything else.

Cross laughs, tired, “This is so fucking stupid.”

He slides his left hand down into his shorts.

Dream is completely different from Nightmare. He’s kind and patient and selfless. He saw the broken monster Cross was, the things he had done, and chose to work with him anyway. Dream accepted him when he didn’t have to, and that meant more to Cross then, and means more to him now, than anything else.

Dream is important to him. 

His magic reacts instantly when his phalanges first brush against it, snapping into the shape of a cock. He wraps his phalanges around it, trying not to dwell on just how fucked up this is. He’s always been a mess—this is just one more thing to add to the list, right?

In any case, it’s obvious that Nightmare planned this. He must’ve know about Cross’ blossoming crush before even _ he _ realised; the benefits of being able to look into emotions from an objective standpoint.

Cross gives himself a stroke, hissing at the rough glide. He drags his hand back out and hesitates for only a second before laving his tongue over the palm of it, twice, before sticking it back in his shorts. His second stroke is a lot smoother, relief to his wanting magic.

His cock twitches as his thoughts wander back to the hallway. He’d never before imagined what Dream might look like, lost in pleasure, but now he can’t get the picture out of his head. His magic suited him so well. Soft and bright across his face like sunflowers. Dazzling like sunshine. It must’ve been just as warm to the touch too.

It’s wasted on Nightmare. He isn’t one for appreciating the small things. Nightmare has only ever been selfishly interested in anything—every act, every monster, everything around him just a means to an end. Had he even taken a moment to truly appreciate how desperately Dream had met his thrusts? Cross had seen the way he pushed back onto his brother, yearning for him. Somehow he doubts Nightmare noticed it at all.

Cross pants low as his cock throbs at the memory. He squeezes his phalanges around it, working himself faster. His body hasn’t entirely lost the tenseness from the hall, and he can feel himself wind up tighter as he gets close to the edge. He thumbs over the head of his dick, spreading the precome leaking from it and making himself shudder.

It’s too easy to think about himself in Nightmare’s place—pressing Dream into a wall; kissing his neck from behind; holding tight onto his hips and pushing up into him; reveling in that warmth and groaning into his shoulder; reaching a hand around to jerk him off at the same time. Dream would be so pliant under his touch. Cross would cherish every second of it.

But easier than that is picturing himself in _ Dream’s _ position. He’s got experience to lean on. Nightmare’s oil-slick touch, his hot breath at the back of his neck—Cross remembers all of it intimately. 

“Hhn, shit,” Cross curses under breath.

His wrist is getting sore from the awkward angle and he shoves his shorts down past his hips to help alleviate it, spreading his legs a little wider. His cock juts out in the open, dripping and swollen. His blush grows hotter. There’s an insistent prickling of shame in his soul at the visual reminder of what he’s doing.

How is he going to face Dream again, remembering what he saw? Remembering that he touched himself to it?

But, god, the _ noises _ Dream made when Nightmare fucked him. He’d been into it, of that there’s no doubt. It’d been evident enough in Dream’s actions that a hysterical part of Cross wonders if that’s how Nightmare’s enticed him into staying here—with sly words and good sex.

It had worked on Cross anyways.

His body remembers that time well, and it reacts to the thought of Nightmare’s touch with heat. Cross groans and his hips stutter into a thrust, pushing up into his hand. It feels nothing like Cross imagines Dream would. He’d be tight and hot and so god damn wet. Cross doesn’t have to shut his sockets to envision the way slick dripped onto the floor between the brothers. As his saliva and precome-wetted hand rubs quick over his cock, Cross thinks of how much better it could be.

Dream clenching around him and moaning sweet little pleas into the wall… Cross would want to give him everything he asked for and more. He’d fuck him hard and kiss him slow, savouring his taste. He’d be good to him, returning Dream’s care and sincerity tenfold. 

It wouldn’t be like it was in the hall. It wouldn’t be rough. It wouldn’t be a claiming, tentacles wrapping around the two of them like they were some possession to keep. Making Dream and him gasp as they writhed over them. Black slick staining their clothes, marking their bones, filling the two of them up with their taste and their thickness as Nightmare—

Cross’ sockets snap open.

_ Nightmare_.

Negativity seeps into the air around him. Nightmare's not here himself, but Cross can feel his aura enshrouding him completely.

His next stroke is rough, jittery, as the cloud of Nightmare’s aura pushes at him. The familiarity makes his magic throb. Nightmare isn’t anywhere nearby even, but the fact that his presence can be felt so close means that he _ knows_. He knows what Cross is doing and is letting it be acknowledged between the two of them. It’s both a reminder and a warning.

There’s not a thing that happens in the castle that Nightmare is unaware of.

“Ahh—” Cross pants, and he knows all he needs is a little more to bring him over the edge. Forcibly clearing his skull of distractions, he encircles the underside of the head of his cock and rubs in fleeting brushes by his slit. When the sensation reaches the precipice, high strung, he makes circles with his thumb, incessant.

All at once, he’s coming, and Cross shakes, bones quaking as he continues to work his hand over his length. Cum coats his hand, some dripping past it and onto his shorts. He draws it out till the aftershocks fade and sensitivity sets in, the next stroke making him wince, just on the edge of pain. It’s better that way.

There’s a pleasant buzzing in his body, an all-over ache that’s nothing like the total exhaustion of earlier. Like this, even the persisting fog of Nightmare’s aura feels like a reminder of the past. Conventional. Familiar.

In a moment, Cross will have to gather himself up off the floor and clean up.

He’ll have to face what he saw and what he did and what that means going forward.

For now, however… Cross basks in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dubcon** whereby Dream doesn't actually consent to Cross being a bystander. Neither does Cross. Nightmare kinda steamrolls them both into this and Dream mostly hopes Cross didn't hear anything while Cross most certainly did and doesn't know How to React.
> 
> We now return to your regularly scheduled smut. ✨


End file.
